Connor has never been mistaken for a girl. Even when he barely had any hair and wore onesies that were up for debate. But suddenly in the last few weeks:

At Kroger: How old is she?

At Antique Store: She sure has some rosy cheeks.

On Internet: What a beautiful little girl.

In Some Other Place: What’s her name?

This has happened nine or ten times recently. Well, he is the prettiest baby ever. That’s not his fault. The long wispy tendrils curling over his ears and starting to climb down his collar…those aren’t his fault either. They’re mine. I always thought moms that couldn’t bring themselves to cut their kids’ hair were overly-emotional weirdos. And then his first birthday, when I said I’d cut his hair, rolled around. Apparently the same disease that makes me call things “foody food”, “milky milk”, and “sleepy sleeps” has invaded my ability to be the indifferent badass that once thought the following were good ideas:

I’m lying. I still think they are.

Nonetheless, Chris seemed uncomfortable with the dichotomy of having always been told Connor looks exactly like him and now constantly hearing about how adorable his daughter is. Plus, I feel really awkward correcting people. So here it is. Connor’s first haircut, two days before he turns 13 months.

Before:

After: